


These Foolish Things

by blackberrysyrup



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, But not at the beginning, Depression, Derogatory Language, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Mentions of Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrysyrup/pseuds/blackberrysyrup
Summary: Bucky always wanted to see France, but he never imagined he’d have a gun strapped to his back and fear set deep into his soul when he did. Instead of seeing the beautiful country he always dreamt of, the France he is met with is shell-battered and streaked with the blood of young men. He also never imagined to find love amongst the hedgerows of the Normandy countryside, but the shy French farm girl who makes a home in his heart may turn out to be the one thing he needs to make it out of Europe with both his life and his sanity.On July 7, 1944, Bucky lands on the beaches of Normandy a month after D-Day, and his life changes forever.━━━━━━━━Canon-Divergent: Bucky gets deployed to England at the beginning of CA:TFA in 1942. Any point before that is canon, but afterwards, it is my AU. The Captain America storyline doesn't happen.





	These Foolish Things

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very intense story that took a lot out of me to write. please read the warnings in the tags before you read it, i want everyone to be happy and safe. i’m definitely trying something new but era fics have always been my favourites.
> 
> read it on my tumblr!

   The first time he’d thought about going to Paris had been with a girl in his arms.

   He didn’t remember much of their time together now—it was all so faded and out of reach—but he still knew her name. Dolores. She liked it when he called her Dot, and he liked the way the blush that spread over her shoulders and neck masked the freckles there like ink bleeding through paper when he did.

   The idea to visit the city of lights came to him as she lay before him, sixteen and perfect from head to toe. Bucky had been eighteen, with hardened calluses over his fingertips and a growing collection of scars over his chest, but she’d traced each one with first a fingernail and then her lips and made him believe that maybe they weren’t as ugly as he’d thought. Her hair seemed to glow against the white of his pillowcase, spread out around her in a fiery halo. She reached for him with ghostly touches and he swore she shone like a star. The only star that mattered.

   She was under him, naked and shimmering like the sun, grasping at every part of him she could reach. He felt the press of her nails into his back, her teeth at his shoulder, as he pressed himself against her, tried to meld their bodies into one whole mass of tangled limbs and sharp breaths. It was as she mouthed the mark in a silent apology after the fact that he’d had that brilliant thought.

   “Let’s go to France.”

   The words were spoken against her hair into the darkness of his bedroom, but they rang in his ears as if he’d shouted them from a rooftop.

   She pulled back from his neck, a hand coming up to grasp his cheek and rub softly at the stubble that grew along the length of his jaw as she smiled at him. The moonlight that bled through the open curtains behind him made the beads of sweat along her hairline shine like mercury, but he thought it only added to her afterglow.

   “Bucky, we can’t go to France,” she sighed, the smile still playing on her lipstick smudged lips.

   “Why not?” he argued, rolling over onto his back and pulling her against his chest on top of him. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, and for a moment Bucky could pretend that it was only the two of them in the whole city. Nothing mattered except the way her cheeks rounded underneath her eyes as she giggled and the weight of her breasts against his chest. Dot lowered herself atop him, folding her hands over his ribs and resting her chin upon them. She kissed the line of his jaw and gave him another smile.

   God, how he loved that smile.

   “Because,” she said, bringing a hand up and tracing it over the skin of his chest. She felt the dip in his clavicle and tapped the bone there with a finger as she spoke. “We can’t just pack up and go. Our lives are here in Brooklyn, Buck.”

   “I think I’d rather run away to Paris with you,” he sighed.

   Dot laughed again. “I know you don’t mean that.”

   She removed her hands and pressed the top of her head under his chin, her temple resting against his throat. Bucky ran his fingers through her hair, untangling the knots that had formed there. She sighed at the feeling of his fingers against her scalp.

   “I have my family, and you have your brothers and your sister.” Her voice was so quiet as she spoke that it was barely above a whisper. “At the very least, we can’t go now. Maybe one day, though.”

   He felt her smile against his chest before she pressed a kiss to the skin there.

   “One day I’ll let you sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to Paris,” she said. “We’ll have champagne by the Eiffel Tower and walk at night hand in hand through the city of lights.”

   “I’d like to think of it more as the city of love,” Bucky grinned.

   “Alright then,” Dot agreed with a laugh. “You and I, and the city of love. I’ll hold you to that, Barnes.”

   The memory of her was faded now, blurred at the edges and sun-bleached like a worn photograph. He held onto the dream of seeing Paris long after she broke his heart on the night before his twenty-first birthday, running off with that railroad worker who promised her a better life on the west coast. Through the ache she’d left behind, he still felt a desire to see the world beyond New York. His motivation for doing so had simply changed, he’d reasoned.

   Though he wasn’t necessarily a man of faith, he believed that if he wanted it badly enough it would happen one day. It wasn’t prayer—more like a desire so strong, he’d will it into existence simply by wanting.

   As he’d predicted, it had come to be. It came about much faster than he’d wanted and under vastly different circumstances, but it happened nonetheless.

   And there was not one thing he regretted.

 

* * *

 

   The first time Bucky Barnes laid eyes on the coast of Northern France, it was between gasps and coughs, and with the sting of ocean spray in his eyes. If he hadn’t been so incapacitated while pitching ropes of seasickness over the side of one of the many Liberty ships that moved across the English channel that cloudy afternoon, he might have taken the time to… relish the moment a bit more, at least.

   The coast seemed to stretch endlessly to either side of the horizon, looking more like a long beige shadow against the stark gray curtain of clouds than anything else. It gripped the scalp of the sea with rising bluffs as black as charcoal along almost the entire length of it. He could barely make out of the shape of the landing craft and other troop ships much like the one he was on that still lay against the shore, their forms only tiny spots amongst the gargantuan beaches.

   His stomach bubbled once more, the muscles in his abdomen constricting painfully, and he bent over the railing. His knuckles were white as he gripped the metal threaded with dark bits of oxidation and weather-worn spots along the starboard side of the trooper. Bucky’s stomach squeezed in time with his throat, the entire organ seeming to bang up against his esophagus and forcing him to retch into the sea. He was sure the tone of his skin matched the overall pallor of gray that the afternoon offered, ghostly ashen and green.

   He thought he’d be alright, yet he was anything but.

   Wiping his forehead with the sleeve of the olive green jacket he and all others like him wore, he felt the press of the metal railing into his ribcage and allowed himself to sink into it. It was grounding. How close the sea was to him despite the size of the trooper, and how frightening. He’d only ever seen it from the beach at Coney Island before, where it looked the least menacing; nothing but a rolling blanket of blues and greens that softly smoothed away the footsteps in the sand. But now it undulated beneath him, writhing and foaming against the side of the ship, spitting angrily up at him. It was no longer rolling but  _roiling_ , folding against itself a thousand times over, deep pockets of it as dark and silken as velvet. It wasn’t blue anymore but black. The water looked more like an abyss than anything, ready to swallow him up whole if he happened to lose his footing for only a moment.

   He was half tempted to jump, recalling something from his high school English classes about the sublime. Something so beautiful—a striking vision of grandeur and excellency—that it was absolutely mortifying to look upon it. He felt that same dread in his gut when he gazed over the ocean. He held onto the rail tighter, his knuckles turning white.

   Trying to compose himself, Bucky licked his lips and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sound of the creaks and groans of the ship as it glided across the angry sea. He was surprised to find his face damp, his lips salty. He hadn’t recalled the spray hitting his face, so he wasn’t sure when the sea had found him.

   He pushed himself up with the railing, legs stumbling slightly. He spit into the sea, watching it fall into the churning foam as he made a mental note to wash his mouth out and rid himself of the stench of bile.

   “Barnes?”

   He’d been so caught up in his moment of nausea that he hadn’t heard anyone approach, the sudden calling of his name causing him to jump and hit his knee against the metal in front of him. Bucky sucked a breath between his teeth and turned to face the man who’d called his attention.

   To say he was surprised to see his platoon leader standing behind him, his boot-clad feet spread to keep his balance on the moving deck and his arms crossed over his broad chest, would be a great understatement. Lieutenant Hudson looked angry for a moment, the creases below his thick brows darkening his expression as he looked at Bucky with his sharp nose tilted into the air (no doubt noting the horrid smell that came from his person), before his features softened into one more akin to understanding.

   “Sir?”

   Bucky cringed inwardly at the hiccup that followed his voice. He must have looked like a mess if the way he felt was anything to go by.

   “You alright there, Sergeant?” Hudson asked as he stepped forward. He leaned against the rail to the right of Bucky, a more casual feeling washing over their conversation for which Bucky was grateful.

   “Just finding my sea legs, sir,” he replied.

   The ship rumbled and hummed below their feet, and Bucky felt the movement in his hands that were still gripping the metal before him.

   “Yeah, aren’t we all,” Hudson agreed. “You seem to have it pretty bad, though.”

   “Never been too fond of the water,” he explained.

   “We’ll be on land soon enough.” Strings of chestnut coloured hair fell into Hudson’s dark eyes, the moisture in the air combined with the spray of the sea below them weighing it down and wetting the strands. He ran a rough hand through his locks, pushing them back into place. Bucky knew he liked keeping it longer on the top, but he was still unsure how he got away with it. “But I doubt that’ll be any better.”

   Bucky cleared his throat, turning to his superior and watching as he looked over the vast ocean. Back home, he might have even made friends with the likes of  Noah Hudson. He was only a year older than Bucky but had been in the army much longer. He’d wanted to be here, had enlisted the second he graduated high school, and although he wasn’t one for stereotypes, Bucky had to admit that the man before him was the poster boy soldier. He wouldn’t be surprised if all the propaganda back home was drawn in Hudson’s likeness. With just the right amount of rugged mixed with an aura of authority, Hudson demanded respect simply by existing.

   It was actually kind of intimidating. Though Bucky supposed that might have been a good thing.

   “Did you need me for something, sir?” he asked.

   Hudson turned to him, a serious expression falling over his features once again.

   “Not me,” he said. “Bauer wants to see you.”

   “Bauer?” Bucky asked. “What does he need me for?”

   “No clue,” Hudson said. He pulled a pack of Luckies out of his breast pocket, shaking one out of the carton and placing it between his lips, muffling his next words. “Son of a bitch never tells me anything. How am I supposed to lead my platoon if I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing?”

   Bucky stayed silent, watching as his Lieutenant cupped the end of the cigarette to block the wind coming at them and lit it, tossing the still burning match into the water. He was mesmerized by the glowing band eating it slowly as Hudson took a long drag. With smoke still in his lungs, he said, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

   “Of course.”

   “He’s up on the bridge with the rest of command.” Silky tendrils of smoke spilled from his nostrils as he exhaled. The lazy curls rose from the lit end of the cigarette, the shifting veil of gray blending in with the cloudy atmosphere. Bucky inhaled sharply, the familiar scent of tobacco and burning paper a welcome and comforting relief from his spinning mind. “Told me to come find you and let you know.”

   “Thank you, sir,” Bucky said. He squeezed his eyes shut one last time, before pushing off from the rail completely and balancing himself on his own two feet once again.

   “Yeah.”

   It might have been his vision playing tricks on him, but Bucky was pretty sure he was swaying slightly as he stepped toward the stairs that would lead him up to the bridge of the ship. Or it might have just been the movement of the craft itself that threw him off. His stomach was no longer bubbling but his head hurt from the force of his retching and white spots appeared behind his eyelids, growing like ink blots.

   “And Barnes?”

   At the sound of his call, Bucky turned to face Hudson once again. He was leaning with his back against the railing, elbows anchoring him in place and the cigarette still between his lips as he watched Bucky’s retreating form.

   “Might want to wash up before you go,” he smirked.

   As if he wasn’t already pale enough, Bucky felt all remaining colour drain from his face as he nodded quickly.

   “Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

   The water smelled of metal and stung against his cheeks as Bucky leaned over the small steel basin. It was tucked behind the last row of barracks in the cargo hold that had been repurposed to house troops as they crossed the channel, the only somewhat secluded area the troops had amongst one another. Bucky curled his fingers around the edge of the steel wash bin sink, watching the water drops fall from his nose as they landed and plinked like little bells against the drain. He tried to drown out the chatter of the other troops in the hold, the sounds of a lost poker game or a shouted demand for breakfast leaving his ears ringing.

   When he was sure he’d rinsed his mouth out well enough, though the taste of copper remained on his tongue in place of the burn of stomach acid, he inspected his appearance in the small, dirty mirror mounted over the sink. He looked like every other soldier on the ship—tired and broken from the road behind them, and entirely unprepared for the journey ahead.

   He almost didn’t recognize himself, and it wasn’t because of the cloudy glass.

   Bucky’s face was lined with evidence of the war, creases in his forehead and under his eyes that hadn’t been there two years prior now catching his eye. It was nearly impossible to get a close shave in the conditions the men were in, so his cheeks and jaw were perpetually shadowed by stubble. His deep brown hair was the only thing that still somewhat reminded him of the man he’d been when he left New York. He’d always maintained the same style even before the war, but now the government-issue crew cut was getting increasingly messy and long enough to grip between his fingers. He made a mental note to cut it before they landed ashore, lest Hudson reprimand him for it (that damned hypocrite).

   But what concerned him the most as he stood there gazing upon his withered reflection were his eyes.

   “You have such beautiful eyes.”

   He remembered the words his mother told him again and again during his childhood with an ache in his heart. Bucky could almost feel the press of her hands against his baby soft cheeks, squeezing him firmly but ever so gently as he’d try to squirm out of her grasp, but she always held him close regardless. He closed his eyes and watched the light dance against his eyelids. Just to remember her. To hear her. To smell the perfume she wore every single day for twenty years, the one his father had bought her and that smelled like home and comfort to Bucky.

   “They’re like your fathers. Like river rocks through a stream in the summer. Like cloudless skies. You need to smile more, my love. It brings out the stars in them.”

   He should have thanked her for everything she did for him more often. But he was too young to regret so much.

   When he opened them once more, he saw none of that. Bucky saw only the hardened crease of his brows and the sag at the outer corners. Skies that had once been clear were now storming with darkness and the edge of war, the light of the stars his mother once described long snuffed out. He was a shadow of the young excited boy he’d been when he received his first deployment only two years before. At twenty-seven, Bucky finally began to understand why his father’s expression would darken sometimes in the evening, why he’d go days without leaving his room, and why when Bucky had told him he’d enlisted, the irises of the eyes that his eldest son mirrored grew sombre.

   His father once said that the Great War had eaten him alive. Bucky had been confused at the time, still only a child and wondering how that could have been if his father was right there in front of him.

   But now, on his way to Normandy aboard a crowded ship full of frightened men and boys who had already written the letters that would be sent home if the worst came to pass, he knew exactly what his father had meant.

   With a frustrated sigh, Bucky wiped wet hands against his face one more time, pulling himself out of the saddened stupor he’d been in as he looked in the mirror. He was needed on the bridge. This was no time to be reflecting on his past.

   It was cramped in the hold as Bucky moved through the barracks, the conversations of the men he served with buzzing around him like a swarm of bees. He passed a table where men had gathered around a particularly intense game of poker, cigarettes and any form of valuables being deemed a valid substitute for money, which there was no need for on the ocean. The men cheered and shouted, egging their friends on to win something for their squad, cries of “He’s bluffing!” following Bucky until he reached the stairway that would take him up the tween deck and eventually the bridge.

   But just as he was about to pull open the door, he was interrupted.

   “Hey, Bucky!”

   As he turned to face him, Bucky wondered how it was possible that Walls kept a smile on his face through all of it. He wore that same smile now, beaming broadly at his friend as he approached with his lips curled back to show off his (still somehow pearly white) teeth. The Corporal’s squad had fought alongside Bucky’s own for some time in Italy, and the two had grown close to each other despite the obvious difference in rank. Bucky refused to be called ‘sir’ by anyone, even his own squad. He was Bucky to everyone, even if Hudson clicked his tongue in distaste whenever one of the young Privates addressed him as such.

   “Walls,” Bucky greeted. “How you holdin’ up?”

   “Heh,” he replied with a humourless chuckle. “About as well as anyone else.”

   Bucky refrained from pointing out the fact that his hands were shaking as Walls brought one up to scratch at his cheek.

   Corporal Oliver Walls was a good man, one that Bucky came to trust with his life during their time fighting together. He remembered the young boy’s smile as they sat in an abandoned home in Sicily, a photograph between them on the rubble covered floor. “That’s my Ma,” he’d said, pointing to a round looking woman on the left with eyes as soft as clouds. “When we get back, come over and she’ll make you the best apple pie you ever had in your life.”

   That had been just under a year prior.  And while some men seemed to have lost their ability to smile, Walls’ was like a beacon of hope.

   “You wanna get breakfast?” Walls asked, jerking a thumb back towards the barracks. “Johnston managed to smuggle some oranges out of the pantry. They’re real fresh.”

   “I can’t,” Bucky sighed, looking down. Even if he could, he wasn’t sure he could stomach anything more than some crackers at best. A hint of nausea still lingered at the base of his throat, after all. “Bauer needs me.”

   “Bauer?” Walls looked as perplexed as Bucky had when Hudson had told him the same thing. “You in shit or something?”

   “Hope not.”

   “Well, tell him to get us some better coffee,” Walls said. “The shit we got now tastes like cat piss.”

   “I’ll be sure to deliver your message,” Bucky laughed.

   The clanking of his boots as he climbed the metal steps to the bridge was so loud that his ears began to ring.

   On the deck, the air was like sweat. It felt like a trapped breath, swelling hot and salty around him as if he were caught in a bubble. He continued to climb steps, this time much fewer, as the door to the bridge loomed in front of him.

   He sucked in a heavy breath through his nose and tasted salt on his tongue before swinging it open.

   There was no way that they could have fit more people into that room even if they tried, lest they be unable to move without bumping limbs. It was more crowded than the barracks if that was possible. There were a few men he recognized, but many of whom were inside were unfamiliar to him. Some were crouched over maps, designating the best route of travel through Normandy based on radio communications from the troops on the mainland, others sitting with chunky black headsets over their ears in front of the large radios as they received those incoming transmissions. The sheer number of dials and buttons and numbers that lined the wall underneath the large window that made up the entirety of the front of the room was enough to make Bucky’s head spin. He recognized the Navy Captain that had been working closely with Bauer standing next to a smaller man holding a notepad, the Captain dictating something to him that he would then take to either a typist or a radio operator. The bridge was alive with chatter and men bustling about, making last minute preparations before the ship landed on the coast.

   “Can I help you?”

   A rather large man, broad shoulders clothed in the sharp black dress uniform that was far more decorated than the one Bucky had at home, approached him. Glancing at his left sleeve, Bucky noticed the insignia he bore. A golden oak leaf. He looked back into the Major’s eyes and nodded.

   “Lieutenant Colonel Bauer asked to see me, sir,” he explained, but the upturn in his tone that made the statement sound like a question betrayed his nerves at the situation.

   The Major—whom Bucky now recognized as Major Walters, the commander of Charlie Company—eyed the name and insignia on Bucky’s own jacket with an air of displeasure, as if he simply didn’t have the time to be concerned with the likes of him. Which might as well have been true, given how busy the bridge was. But he squared his shoulders and nodded nonetheless, turning away from Bucky to gesture into the room.

   “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

   Bucky gave him a curt nod, and gazed into the room once again, trying to locate his battalion commander. He finally spotted him, speaking to the Major General that was leading their division for the operation.

   As he stepped carefully between rows of tables covered in documents, maps, telegrams and ashtrays, he wondered just how he hadn’t noticed him before. Lieutenant Colonel Adam Bauer was a man unlike any other Bucky had ever encountered before. Just the man’s stature in itself should have been the dead giveaway when trying to find him, as he stood about a head taller than everyone else in the room. His broad shoulders were tense as he wrung his scarred hands together, the marred skin of his fingers playing loosely with the cuff of his uniform jacket. He still hadn’t lost his habit of fidgeting when he was uncertain or nervous about something. But that was the only thing to give him away.

   As Bucky approached, his conversation with the Major General ended and their eyes met, and Bucky felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Bauer only ever held one expression; no one had seen him smile in the three years since the United States had joined the Allied fight against Nazi Germany, and Bucky had a feeling no one would until it ended. And even that was unlikely. He watched carefully as the young Sergeant walked toward him, hooked nose tilted slightly into in the air as if Bucky’s mere existence displeased him. His static black eyes were as bottomless as the ocean had been, shadowed by the hard line of his thick eyebrows. As soon as Bucky was in standing in front of him, he pursed his paper-thin lips and spoke.

   “Sergeant Barnes, glad to see you.”

   His southern accented voice was throaty and low, and sounded as if every breath he let out held some purpose or meaning, every word weighted by its value. Bucky swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he replied.

   “I came as soon as I could, sir,” he said.

   “Good to hear, good to hear.” Bauer looked at down at his hands, still clasped together, and shook them out, resting them at his sides. He was silent for a moment, almost eerily so, as he looked up and to his left toward the beachhead that loomed closer by the second.

   “I have an assignment for you,” he said finally, after what felt like millennia, eyes still glued to the only part of France they could see.

   Bucky shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “For me, sir?”

   “Yes.” He turned back toward the young man again, eyes much more serious than they had been before, a feat which Bucky would have thought near impossible. “I’ve been asked to choose someone from my battalion for this particular assignment. I spoke to Lieutenant Hudson, as I did with each other platoon commander, and we both came to the conclusion that you were the right fit for the job because of everything you did during your time in Italy. Hudson spoke very highly of you, Sergeant.”

   “Well,” Bucky said, glancing down at the metal floor beneath his boots. “Thank you, sir. I’m… honoured.”

   “And yet I haven’t told you what you’re going to be doing,” Bauer said, turning once again to the glass window. “In that way, you’re just like every other man on this ship—ready to throw yourself at whatever order comes your way for the sake of your country’s safety. And I admire that in a man. But it’s what sets you apart that made me choose you.”

   Bucky stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He sucked the inside of his right cheek between his teeth, gnawing softly on the skin with the blunt surface of his molars. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to drop.

   “I’m going to have to pull you from Oscar Company for the duration of the mission,” Bauer explained. “I’ve spoken with both Major Kelly and Lieutenant Hudson and they have agreed to this arrangement. Once we land, you will be joining Able Company of the 107th, who arrived this morning and are waiting for you on the beach. More specifically, it is Able Company’s first platoon that is entrusted with carrying out this assignment. You will be joining them. And believe you me—” Bauer sighed then, bringing two fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “—they have a reputation for being… eccentric on the battlefield. But that was why they were chosen. Why _you_ were chosen.”

   “May I ask what this mission entails, sir?” Bucky inquired. He set his jaw and pressed his teeth together as Bauer looked at him from the corner of his eyes.

   “You’ll be debriefed by the Lieutenant in charge when we land,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say anything at this time.”

   “I understand.”

   “Good.” His back straightened then, those broad shoulders only drawing his frame up higher. “That is all, Sergeant. You may go back to your barracks unless you have any further questions for me.”

   “Actually, sir,” Bucky said, his brow furrowing the slightest bit. “You said it was Able Company’s first platoon, right?”

   “That’s correct.”

   “Do they have a name?” Bucky asked, and at Bauer’s frown he added, “It’s just that it would make finding them a lot easier and quicker.” Almost as an afterthought, he mumbled a quiet, “Sir.”

   Bauer’s frown only deepened, and for a moment Bucky was scared he’d said something to upset him, but then he brought a scarred hand up to his chin and held it in thought. His brow furrowed, but this time Bucky recognized it as confusion.

   “They have an official title, but refuse to go by it so it’s almost been forgotten,” he explained. “I do believe they gave themselves a name though.”

   “Do you happen to remember what that name was, sir?”

   Bauer thought for a moment longer, before his dark eyes lit up with realization, and he brought his hand back down to his side. He straightened his jacket by tugging on the end of it and cleared his throat before he replied.

   “Yes,” he said. “I do. Unless I am mistaken, they have given themselves the name Howling Commandos, or Howlers, as some refer to them. And if that is not indication enough of their unconventional style of warfare, then I do not know what is.”

   Bucky nodded, though mostly to himself as he repeated the name in his mind. And then the words found their way up his throat, spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He tested the name out, rolling the syllables over his tongue and seeing what taste they’d leave behind.

   “Howling Commandos.”

   Though at the time Bucky had been unaware, that name would come to change his life forever.

   As tacky as he may have thought it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! hope you liked it! please leave me a comment and tell me what you thought, and don't forget to support [this story on my tumblr](https://raspberryparker.tumblr.com/post/182204258159/these-foolish-things-series) as well!  
> \- gabi


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